I Don't Know (What I'm Gonna Do If It Doesn't)
by CapGirlCanuck
Summary: Sometimes your best friends walk through your nightmares. And sometimes the most beautiful dreams will break your heart. Or: Steve missing Bucky like crazy, and hoping Natasha is right. (Inspired by Avengers: Endgame trailer. Warning: here be feels.)


From the first time I saw that trailer, I couldn't get Steve's words out of my head.  
They could have put just the shot of Steve crying and that clip with Nat and I would have still cried. He's lost so many times and in so many ways.  
I had the idea for the beginning, and sketched out the idea, but almost immediately knew I couldn't write this as 'how Endgame should end'; it had to fit in canon.  
I started crying at work while making up this story, and I feel bad for doing this at Christmas. But there is this annoying stubborn part of me that won't quit hoping that they _will_ see each other again. At least to say goodbye.

 **A gift for** **thorbiased** **on Ao3.**

Steve knows he is hurt pretty bad.

The pain in his side would suggest a couple broken ribs, it is difficult to breathe, and he can feel the swelling on his face, taste blood. One knee throbs to the beat of his heart.

But he is dead inside.

He has given Thanos every ounce of fight he can muster, and it has not been enough. It will never be enough.

Steve lies still on the jungle floor, listening for the sounds of battle. It seems distant, and he wonders if the others have all fallen as well, if the entire universe will go dark this time.

As he struggles to breathe, the hum in his ears becomes a wail, a cry of loss rising from every corner of every galaxy.

The grief is an unbearable weight, pressing on his chest, crushing him with its darkness, its hopelessness.

Steve wishes he could die.

Someone calls his name, but he can find no strength to answer. Why should he? If it is Thanos or his children, they can have him.

"Sometimes I think you really like getting punched."

Steve's heart stops beating.

The voice, the words, the tone are all familiar, as familiar as a bloody nose or a sketching pencil. They are like a lifeline, something solid, in the tossing sea of shadows and ash, but Steve cannot move, cannot react. He can only listen.

"Steve, c'mon. I told you not to do anything stupid. Well, this sure looks stupid to me. Steve?"

There is a hint of worry in the voice now, and that means Steve is worried too. Because that's the way they are: they worry about each other.

"Steve. You need to wake up, come on. Please. Sam? Sam, I think I need you here. Steve, please, can you hear me? You need to listen to me."

Steve has made no effort, but he doesn't have to. The voice wraps around him, his heart, pulls at him insistently, and he can't fight. He doesn't want to.

A hand rests on his shoulder, heavy, strong, not quite human; it gives him a gentle shake. "Stevie, please!" The voice is desperate now. "It's over. The war is over. We can go home now." A quick gasping breath, and a warm hand closes around one of his.

"Stevie!"

Steve chokes, sucking in a breath so big it hurts like crazy. He jerks up into a sitting position, and his heart is galloping in his chest, he is breathing so fast it's dangerous, he can't really see through the blur of, what, tears?

"Steve!" The hand on his shoulder shakes him hard. "Are you nuts? Don't do that to me. Now, just breathe. C'mon, pal. It's okay. Just breathe."

His hand is pressed to something solid, something that rises and falls steadily. Bucky's hand covers his, capturing it between the warm pressure, and the steady throb of the other man's heart.

Steve opens his eyes.

Longish dark brown hair frames a face so familiar, he can breathe. Dark blue eyes brim with worry and relief, as Bucky smiles.

"Hey, pal. You okay?"

"Bucky."

Steve's breathing and heartrate have slowed, but the word comes out as something automatic, like saying 'ow' when you hit your head.

"Bucky."

"Yeah, it's me." Bucky's face crinkles in a complex expression. "Aw, c'mon. Don't say 'I thought you were dead' or something. Please."

"I thought… you were dead," Steve falters, the words easy in their familiarity.

Bucky swears under his breath, then moves back, alarming Steve. No, he can't go, he just got back! But Bucky is speaking.

"Can you stand?"

Steve isn't sure, he isn't sure of anything other than not letting go of his friend—they'd have to cut off his hand—but Bucky tugs gently. Then he is standing, swaying slightly, so that Bucky grabs his shoulder again.

Steve is shaking all over, he can't control it, and he reaches out to touch Bucky's face. Bucky grins now, crooked and gentle, and his cheek bunches under Steve's trembling hand.

"Bu-cky." Steve's voice cracks on the name, and his eyes fill with tears. He hooks his arm around Bucky's neck, pulls him into a crushing hug, feeling no pain.

Their still-clasped hands are trapped between their chests and Bucky smoothly frees his… But only so he can wrap both arms around Steve's shoulders.

Steve buries his face in Bucky's tangled hair, smells blood and sweat, tastes the salt tears. He will never let go of his friend again.

"It's okay, Steve," Bucky whispers. "This ain't the end of the line."

This ain't the end of the line… the end of the line… end of the line… line… line.

Steve opened his eyes in the darkness.

His breathing was ragged and harsh, it seemed to echo in the stillness. He could see the glowing hands of the clock, the shadowy lines of the dresser along the wall, the picture frames on top of it, his uniform thrown over the high-backed chair.

He closed his eyes, and released a long, slow breath, sank back on the bed. He was in his room at the compound, upstate New York.

He discovered his face was wet with tears.

 _"You're a punk."_

The words were like a distant echo, a lingering sense of Bucky's presence. Steve rolled over to bury his face in the crook of his arm, and cried a little more.

When the well ran dry, he sat up, and swung his legs out of the bed. Padded to the bathroom to wash his face.

Finished with that, he switched off the light and leaned on the doorframe in the darkness. He didn't want to go back to sleep, he didn't think he could. Barefoot, and in his pajamas, he made his way out of his room and down the hall, with no real idea of where he was going.

How could the ache, the hollow spaces in his shattered heart, have grown so much? He thought he'd hurt before: when he lost his mother, when he lost Bucky the first time, when he found him 70 years later. But this, this was a thousand times worse.

There was a light in the common room, and Steve slowed, before stepping cautiously to the doorway.

Natasha was curled into a corner of the couch facing the doorway, bent over a tablet. She met his gaze. "Everything okay?"

"No." The word came out with a little more force than he intended, and he bowed his head, rubbed a hand over his face. "Nothing's okay," he whispered.

Her reply was soft. "I know. Have a seat," she added.

Steve walked to the armchair closest to the door and facing Nat. He sat, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"We have to get them back. All of them."

"We will."

He looked up at her. "I know. Because I don't know what I'm gonna do if we don't."


End file.
